3
Charley Fortnum woke with the worst head he could ever remember having. His eyes were aching and his vision was blurred. He whispered, “Clara,” putting out his hand to touch her side, but all he touched was a mud wall. Then an image came to his mind of Doctor Plarr standing over him during the night with an electric torch. The doctor had told him some implausible story of an accident.
It was daylight now. The sunlight seeped across the floor under the door of the next room, and he could tell, even through his bruised eyes, that this was no hospital. Nor was the hard box on which he lay a hospital bed. He swung his legs over the side and tried to stand up. He was giddy and nearly fell. Clutching the side of the box, he saw that he had been lying all night upon a coffin. It gave him, as he would have put it, a nasty turn.
“Ted?” he called. He didn’t associate Doctor Plarr with practical jokes, but there had to be some sort of explanation, and he was anxious to be back with Clara. Clara would be frightened, Clara wouldn’t know what to do. Why, she was afraid even to use the telephone. “Ted?” he called again in a dry croak. Whisky had never treated him like this before, not even the local brand. Whom the bloody hell had he been drinking with and where? Mason, he told himself, you’ve got to pull yourself together. It was always to Mason he attributed his worst errors and his worst failings. In his boyhood when he still practiced confession it was always Mason who knelt in the box and muttered abstract phrases concerning sins against purity, though it was Charley Fortnum who would leave the box, his face ashine with beneficence after Mason’s absolution. “Mason, Mason,” he whispered now, “you snotty little beast, Mason, what were you up to last night?” He knew that when he exceeded the proper measure he was apt to forget things, but never before had he forgotten to quite this extent… He took a stumbling step toward the door and for the third time called out to Doctor Plarr.
The door was pushed open and a stranger stood there waving a submachine gun at him. He had the narrow eyes and jet black hair of an Indian and he shouted at Fortnum in Guaraní. Fortnum, in spite of his father’s angry insistence, had never learned more than a few words of Guaraní, but it was clear enough that the man was telling him to get back onto the so-called bed. “All right, all right,” Fortnum said, speaking English so that the man would no more understand him than he understood Guaraní. “Keep your shirt on, old man.” He sat down on the coffin and said, “Piss off,” with a sense of relief.
Another stranger in blue jeans, naked to the waist, came in and ordered the Indian away. He carried a cup of coffee. The coffee smelled like home, and Charley Fortnum was a little comforted. The man had protruding ears and for a moment Charley was reminded of a boy at school whom Mason had unmercifully teased, though Fortnum repented afterward and shared a bar of chocolate with the victim. This memory gave him-a sense of reassurance. He asked, “Where am I?”
“You do not need to worry,” the man replied. He held out the coffee.
“I have to go home. My wife will be anxious.”
“Tomorrow. I hope you will be able to go tomorrow.”
“Who was that man with a gun?”
“Miguel. A good man. Drink your coffee, please. You will feel much better then.”
“What’s your name?” Charley Fortnum asked.
“Léon,” the man said.
“I mean your family name?”
“None of us here have families,” the man said, “so we are nameless.”
Charley Fortnum turned this statement over in his mind like a difficult phrase in a book; it made no more sense to him at the second reading.
“Doctor Plarr was here last night,” he said.
“Plarr? Plarr? I do not think I know anyone called Plarr.”
“He told me I had been in an accident.”
“It was I who told you that,” the man said.
“It was not you. I saw him. He carried an electric torch.”
“You dreamt him. You have had a shock… Your car was badly damaged. Please drink your coffee. You will remember things better perhaps afterward.”
Charley Fortnum obeyed. It was very strong coffee, and it was true that his head began to clear. He asked, “Where is the Ambassador?”
“I do not know of any Ambassador.”
“I left him in the ruins. I wanted to see my wife before dinner. I wanted to see that she was all right. I don’t like leaving her for long. She is expecting a baby.”
“Yes? That must make you very happy. It is a fine thing to be the father of a child.”
“I remember now. There was a car across the road. I had to stop. There was no accident. I’m quite sure there was no accident. And why the gun?” His hand shook a little as he drank his coffee. He said, “I want to go home now.”
“It is much too far to walk from here,” the man said. “You are not fit yet. And the way-you do not know the way.”
“I will find a road. I can stop a car.”
“Better to rest today. After the shock. Tomorrow perhaps we can find you some transport. Today it is not possible.”
Fortnum threw what was left of his coffee in the man’s face and charged into the other room. Then he stopped. The Indian stood twelve feet away in front of the outer door, pointing his gun at Charley Fortnum’s stomach. His dark eyes shone with pleasure, as he moved the gun a little this way, a little that, as though he were deciding his target, between the navel and the appendix. He said something which amused him in Guaraní.
The man called Léon came from the inner room. He said, “You see. I told you. You cannot go today.” One cheek was flushed red from the hot coffee, but he spoke gently, without anger. He had the patience of someone who was more used to enduring pain than inflicting it. He said, “You must be hungry, Seńor Fortnum. If you would like some eggs…”.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, yes, of course. You are the British Consul.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“You will have to stay with us for a little -while. Believe me, we are not your enemies, Seńor Fortnum. You will be helping us to save innocent men from imprisonment and torture. By this time our man in Rosario will have telephoned to the Nación to tell them you are in our care.”
Charley Fortnum began to understand. “You got the wrong man, is that it? You were after the American Ambassador?”
“Yes, it was an unfortunate mistake.”
“A very bad mistake. No one is going to bother about Charley Fortnum. What will you do then?”
The man said, “I am sure you are wrong. You will see. Everything will be arranged. The British Ambassador will talk to the President. The President will speak to the General. He is here in Argentina on a holiday. The American Ambassador will intervene too. We are only asking the General to release a few men. Everything would have been quite easy if one of our men had not made a mistake.”
“You were not very well-informed, were you? The Ambassador had two police officers with him. And his secretary. That was why there was no room for me in his car.”
“We could have dealt with them.”
“All right. Give me your eggs,” Charley Fortnum said, “but tell that man Miguel to put away his gun. It spoils my appetite.”
The man called Léon knelt before a small spirit stove on the earth floor and busied himself with matches, a frying pan, a bit of lard.
“I could do with some whisky if you have it.”
“I am sorry. We have no spirits.”
The lard began to bubble in the pan.
“Your name is Léon, eh?”
“Yes.” The man broke two eggs one after the other on the edge of the pan. As he held two half shells over the pan there was something in the position of the fingers which reminded Fortnum of that moment at the altar when a priest breaks the Host over the chalice.